Song of Sea and Salt
by St. Harridan
Summary: The coast of Djose brings back memories unbidden, and Tidus is more like his father than he cares to admit.


The sea, to Auron, seems to resemble a harbinger of Sin's wrath – beneath its calm surface lie omens not even he, despite his knowing the truth behind the death and destruction brought to Spira, can understand.

Sin may even still be around, lurking just beneath those waters, searching, listening, ever waiting.

Auron can feel him there, deep within that colossal shell of death. He can feel the chains binding Jecht to his fate, chains that burn and freeze and strike, that bring Jecht to his knees every time he refuses his master.

Auron has to remind himself time and again that it was Jecht's choice; that it was he who had pulled Braska into a one-armed embrace just moments before they entered Yunalesca's chamber. He remembers, as clear as the night's stars, Braska shouldering his way out after what seemed like aeons, only to collapse against Auron with a tired, gut-wrenching smile upon his chapped lips.

And Auron has to remind himself, always, that the snoring he hears almost every night now is not Jecht's; that Yuna, kind and generous and humble as she was brought up to be, is not her father; that Tidus, as fitting as how a son of Jecht should be, does not have Auron's own perseverance whenever it comes to getting a good night's sleep.

Auron has expected as much.

"Eager to take up the watch now, are we?"

Tidus stands before him with a grimace on his face, having crawled out of the tent he shares with Kimahri and Wakka. He scoffs, looks away. "In your dreams, old man. Lulu's up next, you can't fool me."

"It's not Lulu's turn, but Kimahri's." Auron smirks at the glare Tidus throws his way. "Feel free to accompany him, though I wouldn't recommend it."

"Why not?"

"You would only be a burden with that sword hand of yours."

Tidus grips his fists, glances back at the tent where his sword lies dormant, and tilts his chin up in defiance. No matter how much he tries to deny it, there still lives within him an echo of Jecht: from his unmatched skills in blitzball to the way he fights favouring speed and strength.

"Get back inside," says Auron, feeding the fire with a twig. It crackles and spits, heat just minute to Ifrit's hellfire, warmth just enough to keep the night's chill from drilling into their bones. "You need your rest."

"Yeah, like I can sleep through _that_." Tidus points and an abrupt snore greets the both of them, followed by scattered mumbles in a tongue that Auron is still unaccustomed to.

His memory of the Isle of Besaid is vague; only fragments of Braska's heartfelt request shine through his fogged mind, the scent of sea and salt foreign yet strangely comforting – until he reminded himself, while waiting just outside the chamber of the fayth, that they were to climb sacred Mount Gagazet soon and Braska would obtain the Final Aeon and he would summon it and battle Sin and Braska would-

Auron lifts his gaze to the sea – a vast stretch of midnight darkness, unforgiving, holding back countless secrets and countless corpses. Many were granted watery graves the day before, torn to pieces under the late afternoon sun, ripped flesh and chipped bone swept below the trashing waves soon after, and Auron wonders how many more deaths the coast of Djose would bear witness to.

He can feel Tidus watching him, bright blue eyes trying in vain to pierce through him, trying to read him. A faint breeze sweeps across the grains of Djose sand, carrying with it the scent of dried blood and sea salt, and deep within himself Auron can hear – _feel_ – the hymn of the fayth as Ixion grows restless in his electrified chamber.

If Yuna is wide awake, lying still in the dark, eyes closed, Auron knows for sure that it is not due to Wakka's morbid snores.

"What are you doing?"

Tidus stops just half-way past the tent's flap and looks over his shoulder, shrugs. "You told me to get some sleep. I'm not going back in there with Wakka. I mean, look at him." He swallows hard when another snore bursts through the silence. "He's even worse than my old man."

Auron lets slip a small laugh. "You have to get used to it. I had to put up with Jecht for several months before I could stand being around him. It is hard at first, but it can be done."

"How did_ you_ do it anyway?"

"With patience."

His shoulders slump and he runs his fingers through his tousled hair. "You make it sound so easy. We should get Wakka to do the first watch next time so I can get some quick shut-eye before he comes in and…" He sighs, cut off by another one of the islander's infamous snorts. "I think it sounds more like a shoopuf's fart than anything else."

Auron can't say that he disagrees.

"So, how about it?" Tidus looks at him with hopeful eyes, and for a moment in time Auron sees a seven-year-old boy with tawny hair, holding on to his mother's hand as gentle waves lap against the pier. The look in those eyes is of twisted hope – hoping that his father, swallowed by sea and sky and lost to them, will never return. But there is also another sort of hope, one that wishes another to hold his free hand, to pull him into an embrace – to comfort him. There is the flame of longing, but for ten years, Auron has only seen glimpses of it – faint, few and far between.

Jecht had that same look in his eyes as he stood out on the Djose shore one evening, knee-deep in water with the horizon spread out before him in red and orange and faint shades of violet.

Auron remembers it still: Jecht climbing out of the sea and giving a little shake, spraying seawater over Braska and himself. And he had stared, long and hard, at the water – at the medium that had wrenched him away from his family, from the woman he so dearly loved, from the child he had so many things to say to but never could.

"Hey, spacing out again, huh?"

Auron closes his eye from the glare of the fire, from the ghosts of many moons past treading upon sand as old as time. "Only old men space out."

"Yeah, right." Tidus is already taking off his shoes, untying laces and emptying out bits of sand and soil. "Just for tonight, I swear. I'll try to get used to Wakka and his…snoring, but not tonight. Cut me some slack, okay? Still new to this camping thing."

And Auron sighs – an inward one, though, for he sees no point in stirring awareness of his discomfort, especially within the boy. He has always been one for privacy, and it was only through Braska's convincing words – and partly because Auron did not want to trouble his summoner any more than was necessary – that he had given into sharing a tent with Jecht. It had been much easier towards the end of their pilgrimage though, for Jecht had proven to be a more respectable man than Auron had presumed, but that recollection doesn't help with the notion of his own personal space being susceptible to intrusion.

Then again…

"Fine."

The grin on the boy's face is like Jecht's whenever he showed off his blitzball talents to women and children, and he scrambles into the darkness of Auron's tent to make space for himself. Within seconds, silence settles over the campsite once again. Only Wakka's occasional snores are swept up by the breeze and carried out to sea where the waters are still and solemn: a calm façade that appears almost sinister.

The hymn itself drifts across the high road, faint and mournful, yet still with a boldness symbolizing Ixion's strength. It is but an echo of the heart, calling out to Yuna, wishing to be free of his earthly statue.

From within the tent, Tidus starts to hum, and Auron can hear another voice, rough-edged and uncultured, rising from the depths of the sea. A low, guttural sound that is more beast than man, but it is enough._  
_

_At least the hymn is not lost to you, my friend._

And Auron lifts his jug of nog seawards, a toast to Sin and death and everything in between.


End file.
